


Bellerophon Falls

by GraniteKelpie



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5th Wave Adjacent, A lot of deep conversations about human nature, Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Ambiguous Relationships, Dubious Morality, Gen, Mad Scientists, Other, Science Experiments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-21 15:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30024228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraniteKelpie/pseuds/GraniteKelpie
Summary: Faster. Stronger. More deadly than anything on earth. No one knows where they came from, appearing one day out of the mist and taking normal life with them.Zac, a behavioral psychologist, is tasked by the remains of the U.S. Army to attempt to communicate with one of the creatures, and perhaps even reason with them.Bad is one of Them.Zac and Bad forge a dangerous connection that threatens the remainders of civilization and redefines what it truly means to be human.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Zac Ahmed, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound, Darryl Noveschosch & Zac Ahmed, Georgenotfound & Clay | Dream, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Comments: 42
Kudos: 80





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Moved from my other account here!

* * *

_ "It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood." _

_-William Shakespeare_

* * *


	2. Prologue

It was midnight when the cat started mewling. 

It paced back and forth down the hall, bristling angrily and dragging its claws across the newly installed wallpaper, agitated by something that the people couldn't see. Frightfully and abnormally upset, it slunk towards the glass sliding doors in front of the patio and watched. Its tail twitched anxiously, green eyes inspecting the dark shapes of trees and blades of grass. There was something else, something that the pale light of the moon could not illuminate, and yet the cat knew. The cat knew something was coming.

The woman woke to the sound of the cat's administrations, hushing her baby and her husband as she padded into the living room. She berated the animal, sighing. So unlike the usually quiet creature to disturb their sleep. So unlike it. 

Perhaps that was why she paused, her own eyes drifting to the patio, to the darkness beyond it. Some deeper, human urge to protect herself, that struggled to be heard against years of civilized rationality. The blinking, balking part of her brain that looked into the dark and said _run._ But she'd never faced down a wild animal or dealt with the hunger that came from a harsh winter, so she moved through her middle class suburban home, and locked the cat in its carrier, a plush thing reserved for vet visits.

The cat fell silent, and she smiled with faint satisfaction. Perhaps the poor thing would get some sleep, now that it was out of direct eye contact with whatever had spooked it. For some reason, as she returned to the living room though, she shied away from the glass door. A faint smile of amusement on her lips, as she firmly turned her back to it. Just discomfort with the dark, is all it was. She didn't make a habit of poking around at night, so that was all. She rationalized away as she kissed her sleeping babies' forehead and crawled back into bed with her husband.

She fell asleep, despite the cat's continued wails, and would never wake up again. It was 12:30 when it was all over. 

When the soldiers arrive to the neighborhood, there is not a soul left alive. The cookie-cutter, perfect suburb has turned into a nightmare. Blood and gore fills each identical street, bits of spongy pink matter smeared on every surface. "Jesus _fuck_ ," the commander breathes, staring at the mutilated body in the street. "Did they get _everyone?"_

"Sir!" The commodore yells, there's a blur and the quick flash-bang of the rifle. The creature falls to the ground, twitching at the commander's feet. Breathing harshly, he steps away from the body, unsure that it's dead. 

"They're still here," he says, voice numb with horror as he inspect the thing. He shakes himself, turning away from the oozing black sludge that the creature emits. "Fan out, bring any survivors back to the compound. If you see any of those things..." his voice trails off once again, fisting his hand on his rifle. "Shoot to kill." 

There's a dull thudding on the otherwise silent streets as the soldiers begin to raid through the houses. Occasionally, a dull _pop_ can be heard, the sound of a creature being shot. Sometimes there is the death-cry of a soldier when a creature gets to them before they can be killed. But there are no survivors. 

Until one house is entered, the private nudges through the swinging door. A cat starts up mewling from its blood-spattered carrier. And a second one sitting next to it. The private has a cat at home, takes pity on it, lets it out. The cat's green eyes study him, only for a moment, before both animals slink away. 

The house was once very clean, perhaps even as early as that morning. But now, organs, blood, shattered glass, it has become the stuff of horror. The private's stomach turns, he hasn't seen stuff like this since he was on the front lines. He wants to leave, being here, when one of the creatures could be so close, well it makes his skin crawl. He turns to do just that, when he hears a cry, a _human_ cry, from the other room. 

The private steels himself, trudging forward to the door. A bloody handprint has been made against it, as if someone pushed it closed. As if someone wanted to protect what was inside. 

It's like whiplash, entering the nursery. There's still a soft white noise playing in the background. Soft, plush toys litter the ground and a story-book is strewn on the floor half open. The noise comes from the crib, the dark haired child crying inside. "Holy shit..." The private whispers, hurrying to the babies' side. Clumsy, frantic, hands grasp his walkie talkie. "I found one!" He gasps. "I found a survivor."


	3. 1

Zac is pacing.

He paces a lot, chews at his lips, gnaws his fingers raw. It’s a bad habit, one he’s never been able to break, always needing to get the nervous energy _out,_ something that’s very difficult these days.

And besides, he has good reason to be nervous, he figures. There’s The Letter on his desk, and he doesn’t want to reread The Letter. No. Much easier to go through the day as usual. Push out of the standard issue cot in the college dorm room-turned millitary barracks. Shuffle down the hall and try to ignore eye contact. Take a frigid shower in the weak spray of water. Toss on a hoodie and a government issued ID so you’re not shot on sight.

He’s pacing outside now.

The dead, yellowing grass crunches under his feet. He can remember a time when it was green, probably when he first arrived at the compound, definitely when the compound used to be a college. He wonders if the compound was prettier when the grass was green and there was no net covering the sky. It’s a trivial thing to wonder about because he knows it was, it definitely was, he just doesn’t want to think of The Letter.

What were they thinking, anyhow? He isn’t great at his job, only managing two years of tentative schooling before the second wave arrived and life collapsed. Maybe he’s the last even slightly qualified person left? That thought makes him shudder so he avoids it. Packs it up in the box with thoughts about The Letter.

What’s their end goal anyway? 2/3 of the population has been wiped out, there’s no use returning to ‘the way things were.’ Why can’t they just be content with not dying? Why did they need to rope _Zac_ in with their heroics?

He hadn’t even realized he’d come to the edge of the compound. He stands before the massive, electrified fence, staring out at the maybe 30 meters of dead grass that stretches beyond before it meets cracked asphalt and transitions into a road that no one uses anymore. He stands there for a moment, trying to determine if he can feel his skin prickling. That was one of the signs they always talked about; when one of Them was nearby, you’d always feel off, uncomfortable. Some part of you knew to _run._ But he doesn’t feel anything so he gives a shake and begins jogging back to his dorm.

The faint sound of birdsong rings in his ears, as Zac takes the long way back to his dorm. His hurried pace makes his legs burn, but he doesn’t want to break into a full sprint for fear of alerting any of the soldiers doing their morning drills. He almost feels their eyes upon him, his mind irrational, assuring him that they _know,_ they know about The Letter, and they are furious at him for wanting to refuse.

His face is dry and aching by the time he makes it back to his dorm, his roommate barely offers a glance when he comes in. The dorms weren’t big enough to hold all the civilians, even though only a handful had made it to the compound. Most people had one or two roommates, the unlucky ones could have up to three. Zac considers himself a lucky one, considering he only has one. A strange, quiet guy named George. He hardly hears the man speak a word, and he’s ninety percent sure he hasn’t left his bed since he came to the compound.

“Morning, George,” He rasps, hoping his wind-raw voice sounds friendly. George inclines his head sighty, burrowing deeper into his sheets.

“What’s the letter for,” George asks simply, the faintest threads of his british accent coasting through. He doesn't sound terribly interested. 

“The letter,” Zac says weakly. He doesn’t want to look at it. 

“Yes. It’s addressed to you. You opened it.”

“I did.” 

“What’s it for?”

“It’s why they brought me here. To the compound.” as he says it, he remembers the bland wording. Not so much of a request as a demand. They know that he depends on the compound and the military for protection, there are no major cities left safe, the town he’d lived in was overrun, and he’s lucky to be sequestered behind the electric fence, lucky to be a refugee. George regards him with a kind of bored acceptance. Strange, he didn’t even consider lying. He supposes he’s too tired to. He’s too tired for a lot of things.

“That’s nice.” George responds finally. “What were you?” ‘Were’. Not ‘are’. He supposes it is ‘were,’ because it’s been a long time since he was sitting in his studio, looking over the city. A long time since his biggest worries were getting his psych homework in on time and seeing how many shots he could do without puking.

“A student. Studying to be uh...behavioral psychologist.” George nods slowly. “You?” 

“Exchange student. I was doing,” George furrows his brow, as if trying to remember. “Computers. Coding.” Zac raises an eyebrow. For some reason, it never occurred to him that George was an exchange student, despite his faint accent. He’d never thought about George much at all. In fact, he realizes with faint despair, this is the most he’s spoken to George. Ever. God, was he so far gone that he’d completely forgotten the value of human connection? Zac makes a promise to himself that he’s going to be a better person to George. A better roommate. He’s in a foreign country, and probably has no idea if his family’s made it.

“Do you miss it?” Zac prompts. He doesn’t know what he’s asking about. England? School? The world they used to have when the Creatures were just a far off threat that cropped up in safely quarantined towns that were not their own?

“No,” George says, noncommittal, and rolls back over. Zac remembers why they never talk. Zac busies himself with cleaning. There’s not much cleaning he can really get done with an old T-shirt and some water, and the dust settles so deeply into the cracks that there’s no real point to it, but he doesn’t want to write anymore papers, and he knows they could use him at the infirmary, but he can’t. Not when his brain spins with the knowledge of The Letter. “Are you going to do it?” George says suddenly, startling Zac. 

“Yes,” He says, the word feels like lead on his tongue.

“Of course you are.” George hums, shifting about. “Guess you don’t have a choice.”

Zac’s shoulders ache by the time he deems the smears on the window ‘clean.’ “Suppose I should go tell 'em my answer,” Zac says aloud. He doesn’t expect a response from George, the other had fallen asleep several hours ago. He wants to stall furter. He wants to change his hoodie, take another shower. So he does, and then he’s done. And there’s no other way to stall. 

Zac shoves The Letter into his hoodie pocket, and trudges towards the Office, it used to be the library, biggest building on campus, now where all the grand plans are made. He doesn’t know what they’re planning, what they possibly could be planning, because there’s really nothing left beyond this compound. That thought makes him faintly sick, so he ignores it.

The bookshelves have been moved to create various makeshift barriers around the building, with papers tacked onto every inch. People in uniforms and white coats swarm around like busy insects, doing god knows what. He doesn’t know what they’re working on, he knows the Office wasn’t this busy last time. 

Zac feels sicker, the longer he walks forward, a bit dizzy, a bit _wrong,_ and that sends a jolt of fear through him. God, _god,_ he doesn’t want to be here. 

“Zac!” The commander waves him over, fully decked out in his camo, overloaded with guns. He looks a bit ridiculous, but if the fence ever failed, he’d probably survive the longest. “Did you get the letter?” _Yes,_ Zac wants to anser. _Yes, it’s been weighing on me all day. Yes, it’s crushing me._

“I did.”

“And you’re ready to get started?”

“N-now?” Zac asks, he didn't mean to stutter. He doesn’t want this, not now, not _now,_ he’s not ready. A pale sheen of sweat has coated his face, as he stares at the commander like a frightened animal. 

“Yes, Dr. Soot,” The commander waves one of the men in white coats over, a surprisingly young person, bespectacled and smart seeming. It should bother Zac that it seems nearly everyone is his age, besides some of the older military personnel. But it makes sense he supposes, younger and older people couldn’t survive the second swarm of the creatures, couldn’t move north as the south was overrun. Didn't have anything to offer the government to take them into their compound. Dr. Soot seems to see Zac’s nervousness, and offers him a smile. 

“We won't be working with it today,” he assures Zac. “Just some reading material, some information on their biology to catch you up.”

“Oh,” Zac says, a wave of relief swallowing him. 

“Why?” The commander interrupts. Dr. Soot looks up sharply, face pinched. Zac gets the feeling he’s not used to being interrupted. 

“W-well, are we trying to understand its natural behavior?” Zac says, glancing between what he is coming to realize are two opposing sides, “or are we just trying to...communicate?”

“Communicate,” The commander says at the same time Dr. Soot says “Understand.” 

“Communicate,” Dr. Soot corrects himself, glaring at the commander. Zac’s stomach flips. 

“I still need the background,” Zac sighs.. “Motivation, past behavior, different sticks and carrots we can use.” The commander looks confused. 

“Rewards and punishments,” Dr. Soot clarifies. 

“And I need evidence of sentience,” Zac adds. The commander scoffs. 

“They organized and murdered millions, isn’t that enough for you?”

“No,” Zach says, “it could be instinctual. I need to know this is something I can _reason_ with. To a certain extent.” The commander inhales sharply, but simply clenches his jaw. 

“Fine, do whatever study you need. Dr. Soot’s notes are open to you, but you _must_ complete this research as quickly as possible, time is of the essence.” He walks away stiffly, probably to do some ‘saving the world.’ Dr. Soot sighs heavily.

”Jonathan’s an idiot.” Zac glances at the man in surprise, confused for a moment before he realizes he’s talking about the commander. You can call me Wilbur by the way.”

”Thanks,” Zac mumbles, watching Wilbur grab a paper and spread it out on one of the overturned shelves.

”So this is what we’ve got so far,” Zac leans over Wilbur’s shoulder, examining the paper. There’s a diagram on it, and Zac wants to scream when he sees it. It’s a Creature. One of Them.

His stomach naturally blanches at the sight. It feels wrong to see it so clearly, any interactions he’s had with Them have been blurs. Blurs out of the corner of his eyes, blurs as teeth sunk into flesh. 

“It’s an ugly motherfucker, isn’t it,” Wilbur says dryly. Zac swallows hard, but suddenly his throat is completely dry. His eyes rake the paper, taking in the mottled skin, the claws, the boils, the red weeping eyes.

“Yeah,” He whispers. He’s tempted to ask if anyone on staff has ever been mauled by the creature, but he realizes it really doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have a choice in working with it. The commander might seem friendly, but he’s used those guns before. “What do we call it? Y’know, besides the ‘creature.’”

“We’re calling them the incognitum,” Wilbur shrugs. “It’s just Latin for ‘unknown.’ A lot of people don’t want to dignify them with a name.” 

“Makes sense,” Zac said, picking up a page of notes, catching words like ‘possessive,’ ‘too much,’ ‘won’t respond.’ He begins to pace again. He doesn't want to die. Such a simple phrase, but it consumes him, swallows every inch of his thoughts. _He does not want to die,_ and if he fails, they will most certainly kill him. So he must do his best work, he _must_ succeed. Before he can fall too fair, he forces his breathing to slow, mentally pushing himself back, back to the headspace of a focused student. What was the first thing he always needed to do? Before notes, before assessments? His pacing stops, suddenly looking up at Wilbur. “I want to see it,” Wilbur raises an eyebrow in faint shock. 

“You sure? Don’t you need another moment to look at the notes?”

“I’m not continuing without examining it first, I need to know it will respond to me. At all.” Wilbur seems to consider this for a moment, leaning back deep in thought. 

“Alright, I don’t see why not. You’ll be spending a lot of time with it anyway, might as well start now.” Zac feels queasy again, as Wilbur stands and motions for him to follow. _Fuck._ Zac follows him to a small auxiliary staircase towards the back of the library. 

“Jesus, it’s _here?_ ” He breathes, running a hand over the rusted bannister. Suddenly all the sickness and fear made sense; the incognitum was _right under them._

“Yeah, we’ve reconfigured the basement.” Zac laughs sharply, shaking his head. How fukcing secure could you make the basement of a _library?_ Wilbur seems to understand his confusion, and smiles knowingly. “The 80’s man, they were really paranoid about bombs,” Before Zac can ask what he means by that, they come upon a massive steel door. There’s a little keypad next to it, which Wilbur begins tapping away at. “We’ll give you your own code, also pardon the noise, it’s just the generator.” He’s being way too calm, Zac thinks, head spinning. Way too fucking calm. 

The door swings inward, and a faint blue light pervades the end of the stairwell. Wilbur doesn’t wait for Zac to follow, simply forging ahead. Zac takes a moment to steel his nerves, before following the man he’s becoming increasingly sure is completely mad.

The awful _feeling_ gets worse, making him want to hurl. He’s scared, he’s _terrified._ Only shock keeps him rooted in his spot, keeps him from sprinting away. It looks like a lab from one of the movies, one that he saw before the second invasion. There are metal tables everywhere, beakers, papers, dials and buttons that seem too numerous to have a function. White coated scientists swarm at all sides and guards stand to either side of the wall armed to the teeth.. And in the back, a massive glass wall. Instinctually, he chokes with knowledge. _That’s it. That’s where the danger is._ And he wants to _run,_ he needs to _run,_ but he’s frozen. 

“It gets easier,” Wilbur offers, shaking Zac out of his frozen stupor. 

“I’m f-fine,” he gasps, clearly not fine. 

“Well, it's all yours.” Wilbur gestures to the cage, and Zac knows it's his job to go forward, that he _offered_ to go forward, and interact with it. But he can’t, he _can’t,_ his entire body is shrieking at him, _screaming_ at him to _run_ to get out, to escape. “Zac!” Wilbur says harshly, “snap out of it.” And then Zac thinks of the commander’s gun, a much more concrete threat than this nebulous foe behind the glass. He forces his stiff legs forward, forward, _closer_ , despite his hammering heart and howling mind. He stops a foot before the glass, it’s all he can bear. 

And suddenly it’s in front of him. 

It seemed to materialize out of nowhere, or maybe he hadn’t been paying attention? His brain is spinning, coming apart, coalescing into a different shape entirely. He’s coming undone at the seams, and all he can do is stare, frozen, at this vision of death in front of him. 

He doesn’t know what comes over him. 

Really what’s been _coming_ over him, ever since he entered the office. 

But his hand drifts up to rest on the glass. Cool and smooth, staring eye to eye with it. 

Ripples of gasps fill the office and Zac gets the impression that he’s done something profoundly stupid. The creature doesn’t seem phased.

It cocks its head to the side, almost questioningly. 

And then it mirrors Zac’s action, pressing its hand-like appendage to the glass. Zac doesn’t have time to marvel at this, this almost _human_ form of connection, before the creature’s moving again. 

Well, not moving. But its skin ripples, every inch of it seems to be remaking itself, cracking into little pieces and reknitting itself. A tan color floods over its rough, black hide. Dark roots spring from its horns, pale, hateful, eyes, become dark and curious. 

And suddenly Zac isn’t looking at the creature.

He’s looking at himself. 


	4. 1.5

_light_

_too much light and sound too much_

_too much hurts_

_hurts_

_they didn’t even know_

_they didn’t even know they were hurting_

_hurting him did they_

_and then_

_shadow not really even shadow_

_reach for_

_reach for another_

_another face like them_

_them_


	5. 2

Zac stares dumbly at his reflected face, his brain simply _refusing_ to process what he was looking at. It was shock, pure shock, all he can think was that perhaps-perhaps someone had moved a mirror in front, but then it moves independently of him, letting its arm fall to the side.

Then came revulsion. This creature-this _monster_ was _using his fucking face._ He steps back, horrified, stumbling into Wilbur, because he dare not turn his back. He shakes, babbling nonsensically. “Wah-how-wh-huh-me?!” Wilbur’s hands rise to grasp his shoulders, steadying him. His knees are weak, fully prepared to give out. 

"Yes." Wilbur's infuriatingly calm voice pierces his panicked state. "You’d know they can do that, if you read the briefs.” He doesn’t speak in a mocking way, moreso a simple statement of fact, like one might remark on the weather. Zac is infuriated.

”You didn’t think to mention they fucking _shapeshift_?” Zac scoffs, still unable to take his eyes off the creature. It remains in his form, still unmoving from the glass. It blinks slowly, unsettlingly so, movements stilted as if its reacquainting itself to action; to its body.

”I have a lot on my plate.” Wilbur says, pushing Zac away stiffly. "You had the briefs." And Zac knows there will be no more talk of a blame game. It is his fault isn't it? For being unprepared. 

"I did." He finally agrees. His gaze is still fixed to the creature, watching, _watching_. It hasn't moved, still blinking at its agonizingly slow pace. His stomach plummets. "So. What's our...timeline?" Wilbur smiles thinly.

"You heart Commander Schlatt. As fast as possible." 

The creature isn't _moving_.

* * *

**August**

The sheer, all encompassing terror faded after he moved from the room, though the knowledge, the simple _truth_ that there was one of those _things,_ within their protective walls, under the net, made him want to tear his hair out. He'd taken for granted the fragile, brittle peace that the walls had brought. The knowledge that if one of Them made its way into the base, he'd at least _know_ , maybe have a few moments to _try_ to run before he was inevitably shredded. But now? Now it was _there,_ it knew what he looked like, it _knew._

It took all his restraint not to tell George, who had not moved from his bed by the time Zac returned. So marvelously unchanged, whilst Zac's world had dropped out beneath him. He wasn't sure what the information clearance was regarding the Incognitum, but he got the feeling it wasn't best to be spreading information to civilians. And besides, George wasn't one for conversation anyway. Zac took his cues from George; and lost himself to the briefs Wilbur had laid out for him. They weren't very detailed, even to his rather out of practice mind. But it was more information than anyone had ever had on the creatures, so he read voraciously.

It evidently seemed to enjoy changing its form to the scientists that observed it, though no one had ever gotten close enough that it had been able to replicate their face. Zac cursed his impulsivity, and made a note. _Bad eyesight?_ It moved much faster when it wasn't mimicking humans, and Zac wondered if it could resemble any other creature. It occurred to him that it may be difficult to get any other living creature to the Incognitum for it to mimic. Furthermore, he didn't know if it would _want to._ For that matter, the most discouraging thing in the briefs was that no communication had been made. At all. It didn't seem to have a vocalized language, no patterns had been found in its movements that suggested any sort of intelligent signing, so unless it communicated through pheromones or-and Zac laughed aloud at this, earning a strange look from George-perhaps it communicated telepathically. Though, he supposed at this point nothing was outside the realm of possibility. 

He closed the briefs with a dissatisfied _thump._ So _._ The closest it had ever come to communicating was...reaching for him. He'd have to work with that.

And Wilbur was right, it did get easier. 

He'd spent a week with the briefs, trying to familiarize himself with the appearance of the Incognitum. Had tried to make excuses to sit in the Office and get used to the clench of fear in his gut. So that now, standing in the lab before the creature, he is able to distance himself from the natural, _human_ urge to flee.

"Good morning," He says, placing his notes on the ground next to him. The sound of them dropping echoes through the mostly empty lab. He takes a step forward- _run-_ he places his hand on the glass- _unsafe-_ and stares. He stares the creature down, where it is crouched in the corner of the cell. He hadn't gotten a chance to look at the cage where the creature was kept, he realized. It's stark white and featureless, lit with bright fluorescents, about twenty by twelve feet. And it's nowhere near big enough for the Incognitum, who crouches in the corner looking almost, dare he say it, wary.

Zac keeps his hand pressed to the glass, but the creature does not move forward. It doesn't move from its spot, continuing to stare in a way that is distinctly inhuman. 

"My name is Zac," he continues, careful to enunciate his words. "Do you have a name?" He knows he certainly wont get a response in English, but all he's looking for is familiarity. Establishing a routine. Getting the Incognitum used to his voice. Trying to see how it reacts, trying to see if it has any pattern recognition. Any sort of reaction, really. Anything he can use to begin an analysis. 

His efforts are not rewarded on the first day. Or the second. Or third. It's a full week, before the Incognitum shows any sort of movement. On the seventh day, when he descends to the lab, the Incognitum is waiting as close to the glass as he's ever seen since the first day. Zac feels a twinge of satisfaction, and Wilbur gives him a faint nod of approval from behind his observation desk. It's progress. It's incredibly fucking slow, and he might find himself facing the barrel of a gun for it, but it's progress. 

"Good morning. My name is Zac."

He's getting responses.

It's an incredible step up from where they were; it can recognize patterns. It knows that for two weeks straight Zac has come in at 6:30 am without fail and said the same eleven words, because every day it waits for him. Which means it can _learn._

He's currently functioning under the assumption that this creature has similar cognitive abilities to a dog, seeing as it clearly recognizes him and his voice, while ignoring Wilbur and the other scientists. Which means the next step is to teach it words.

Schlatt hasn't been directly involved in Zac's interactions with the Incognitum, though he knows Wilbur must be reporting to him on their progress because the following day he gets a missive with some words to teach the creature. He ignores them; they're nowhere near ready enough to teach it words like 'surrender.'

* * *

**September**

The Incognitum doesn't seem to care for the whiteboard Zac had set up in front of the glass wall, seemingly unable to understand what he was writing on it. Hell, Zac wasn't even sure if he could _see_ the board, much less the foreign symbols he scrawled out on it. And Zac has never had the best handwriting. It didn't even seem to grasp _shapes_ , and Zac is rapidly reconsidering his earlier assessment of its intelligence. 

It's Wilbur who first suggests showing it movies.

Perhaps more variety, the simulated presence of familiar environments would get them somewhere.

They manage to find an old CRT TV stashed somewhere in an old Office closet, with only a small crack attached to it. The VCR player still works, and with only a small bit of fiddling, the grainy blue screen of death flashes on. The incognitum barely looks up when the wheel it into the lab. The thing is old, _old_ , and the dim light it emits can barely compete with the harsh fluorescents in the lab. 

"Hmm, let me turn down the lights," Wilbur hums, and shuffles away. Zac is left alone with the creature. Over the past month, the novelty of Zac's stunt with the creature died down, most of the team has retreated to their work upstairs, preffering to spend as little time as possible with the Incognitum. Zac, for his part, isn't as bothered by it. It's still, as Wilbur put, 'an ugly motherfucker,' but at least it's familiar. He looks over its barely visible eyes, red rimmed and staring, it still hasn't attempted to mimic him since the first day. He wonders idly if it may have taken a lot of energy. 

Wilbur cuts the lights out. 

Zac sits there for a moment, blinking hard. There's still a faint blue light emitting from the TV and the emergency generators, but it takes a moment for everything to come back into focus. 

The effect on the Incognitum is immediate.

It raises its head, rolling out its neck, presses its hands to the floor, and pushes itself up until it presses against the ceiling. Its eyes widen, as if taking in the room for the first time. Zac's shocked face, the white board, the TV, Wilbur, returning from the light switch. It shakes itself, pacing, moving more than Zac has ever seen before. It's as if all the tension has drained from its body. 

And he comes to a realization. 

"Wilbur-Wilbur, it's _nocturnal_." Wilbur looks bemused, but then looks up. The change in the creatures behavior is obvious, even to the untrained eye.

"Ah." He says softly eyes turning cold and calculating. Zac has gotten used to the prickling fear that comes from the creature, but Wilbur's face brings on a fresh wave of concern. "Ah."

From that point on, they work with it in the dark. 

Zac once again reassesses the creature's perceived intelligence. Evidently it does recognize that Zac and Wilbur are attempting to communicate. He nearly jumps out of his skin when one morning, descending into the lab, it _waves_ at him. It fucking _waved._ Surely it's recognized it from the movies. Did it know that it was communicating? Was it merely mimicking him like on the first day? He goes to Wilbur.

"I need a linguist."

* * *

**October**

His name is Alex, and Zac can see why he's a linguist. He really fucking likes to talk. _Constantly._ After months of near silence from George, Alex's sudden and completely opposite demeanor makes his head spin. The man's from another military base, about seven hours out. He took a jeep over and saw tons of the 'weird red fuckers.' Zac knows because he wont stop talking about the three separate near-death experiences he had. Despite that, Zac can't help but feel mildly glad for his presence. He's not the obtuse silence of George, or the cold calculating Wilbur. With Alex, what you see is what you get, and Zac is grateful for his simple, direct manner. 

He's also _very_ good at his job. 

He narrows down the important signs they have to teach the Incognitum for effective communication and within weeks, they have it pointing. Pointing and things and _recognizing_ words. Zac is absolutely amazed, though he feels as if he and Wilbur had shot themselves in the foot with the whole nocturnal issue. In the dark, in its element, the Incognitum is thriving. It warms up to Alex in a way it never seemed to with Wilbur, waving at Zac and him in turn.

"Do you think it really knows what its doing?" Zac asks, one day. He and Alex sit in the upper level of the office going over the notes of the day. They'd laid out three toy blocks of different color and had the Incognitum successfully point out their differences. It was nice to know it was working with them at least, and learning, but it didn't tell...much. Beyond the fact that it was a good reward to allow the Incognitum to watch movies.

"That's something you're gonna have to tell me, man _._ " Alex says, with a small smile. " _Ett språk är aldrig nog._ "

"Huh?" Alex looks pensive, chewing on his pencil. 

"You're gonna have to make that call, man. I'm just here to give it the means to express what's already there."

That thought swirls in Zac's mind for the rest night. _What's already there._ He wants to _know_ how much is already there. He stares restlessly at the ceiling of his dorm, listening to George's soft snores. He wont be getting much sleep that night, that much is clear. He wants to get up, to pace, to release this latent energy. 

He debates only for a few moments more, pushing himself from his bed and padding out of the dorm. There's a curfew but he's been moved up in clearance. Technically it doesn't apply to him anymore, though he's never had reason to break it. He just means to wander, really that's all he means to do. But perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps out of habit, perhaps just because the weather's getting colder and he wants to be inside, he ends up in the lab. He sighs heavily. Even at this late hour he can’t escape the _fucking_ Incognitum.

It stares at him when he walks in. 

This is bad. Really bad, because he knows he's not going to put this in the notes. He's breaking the pattern. He's alone with the creature with only the guards at the entrance to the Office to guard him. Would they hear if he screamed? All the way down here, with the buzzing of the generator? If something went wrong, if the Incognitum broke containment, he'd be dead almost instantly. He knows this. 

And yet, he can't find it in himself to be scared. 

He assumes it's all the time he's spent around it. Three months now, every damn day, working tirelessly to tamp down that helpful human instinct. His skin barely prickles anymore. 

"Hey, dude." He says. The Incognitum waves. Zac paces. "Do you even know what I'm saying?" His voice is tight with frustration and anxiety. " _Do you?!"_

He doesn't mean it, doesn't mean to shout, but the Incognitum recoils from the glass, hunching in on itself. Zac is confused, his mind desperately grasping for a solution. It's...it's _frightened_. And the realization makes Zac feel incredibly, _irrationally_ guilty. He shouldn't feel bad for _scaring_ this _monster,_ it probably isn't even scared, just confused. He _should_ feel bad that he's probably just gone and fucked up _months_ of progress in a single, stupid action. He drags his hands through his hair, overwhelmed, a dry sob heaving from his mouth with a shudder. 

" _They're gonna kill me_ ," He hiccups, swiping at his eyes. The tears are coming, hot and fast, along with the clarity of his current predicament. "Jesus, they're going to kill me if you don't _talk,"_ he paces, body shaking with the force of his sobs. He can't remember the last time he cried, actually. Not when he learned how his parents died, not when his home was destroyed, not when he watched the creatures _kill,_ and now here he is. Crying over a monster. He sinks to his knees in front of the glass, hands over his eyes. "I'm sorry," he weeps, holding himself tightly. "I'm sorry,"

He stays like that, curled in on himself for god knows how long until his sobs turn into dry spasms. When he looks up, his whole body starts. He's looking at himself again, the Incognitum in his form, hand pressed to the glass. Zac blinks, wide eyed, too tired, too confused to understand what this means, and then the Incognitum opens his- _its_ mouth.

"Zac."

* * *

**November**

It's the greatest breakthrough they've had yet; the realization that the Incognitum can mimic sounds when it mimics a human. Zac had received the barest slap on the wrist for his impromptu visit, but Wilbur was too excited by the new development in their studies. Alex insists on going out to celebrate, and Zac can't _really_ come up with a reason to say no. Besides, Alex is growing on him. He's perpetually upbeat and hadn't seemed to catch on to the fact that the world has ended. Zac can appreciate some healthy denial. 

He's gotten quite used to their routine, and cajoled on by their promise of movies, the Incognitum is learning to repeat words, and to attach them to objects. Its vocabulary consists of ' _Zac, Alex, light, dark, blue, green,_ and _hello.'_

But it seems to catch on to the fact that all the sounds in the movies actually correspond with concepts. And then he begins asking questions. 

"Zac." Zac looks up from his notes at the uncanny reflection of himself in the glass. The Incognitum can't speak unless it's mimicking a human, and while it's tried out Alex and Wilbur, apparently Zac is its favorite. It points to the TV behind him, currently playing 'Jerry Maguire' for the fifth time. 

"Yeah? What's wrong?"

"Sound." It screws up its face, its hand wavering. "Sound. No. Mouth." Zac looks at the TV and back at the Incognitum. There's no dialogue right now, only a moody shot of Jerry walking down an alleyway while the music swells in the background. 

"Oh!" He realizes, "No mouth sound-music. That's music." 

"Music," It repeats, seeming pleased with the discovery. 

"Yeah, here, let me..." Zac skips through the movie to a more pleasant, upbeat sound. "Music." 

The Incognitum likes music. It _really_ likes music. There's a radio in the Lab, usually reserved for announcements that need to be broadcasted in the case of an emergency, but Zac is able to find some CD's in the old library and hooks up Christmas music. _What the hell_ , he thinks as 'Let it Snow," plays and the Incognitum bobs its head. _It's almost Christmas_. 

* * *

**December**

"What the hell is this?" Zac and Alex have taken to walking to the lab together, but that morning is different. The lab is swarming with unfamiliar faces, taking over his desk and rifling through his notes. The lights are on full force, and he cringes inwardly. "Wilbur!" Zac demands, recognizing the man near his observation desk. 

"Oh, good morning, Zac!" He says cheerfully. 

"What's going on?" Wilbur's face falls slightly, a glint in his eye.

"Commander Schlatt has been rather displeased with our progress," Zac feels a jolt of fear, stepping back. Wilbur laughs softly at his reaction, shaking his head. "No, no, don't worry. There's just been a reassignment. Zac," He motions to a figure behind him. "Meet Dr. Noveschosch." 


	6. 2.5

_furious he’s_

_he’s so_

_he thought they knew they_

_knew they lied to_

_lied to him_

_there are two now_

_not_ Alex _not_ Zac.

 _not_ Zac _this face is_

 _is_ cruel. 

_he does not_

_he_

_does not trust it._

_he takes it_

_takes the face_

_the face so he can_ speak.

”Zac,” _in that_ word _is his hopes_ , Zac, _don’t let them hurt_ me _._


	7. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh argh this chapter is so short but it was a good place to end it

The man steps forward, straightening his coat with a sharp jerk. He's Zac's age. _Of course he is_ , isn't everyone? Zac's gut twists uncomfortably at the man's cool gaze that reminds him entirely too much of Wilbur. They even have the same fucking glasses. Alex has fallen uncharacteristically quiet, a pinched, pale look on his face as he examines the new guy. Zac wonders if its because for the first time it seems as if both of their necks are on the chopping block. 

"A pleasure," Dr. Noveschosch says, " _Mr_. Ahmed." Zac's jaw tightens, not missing the intonation on his honorific. So the apocalypse jacked up his education plans. Sue him. 

"Yeah, sure." He gives the man a dismissive nod, and returns his attentions to Wilbur, who is either spaced out or simply too delighted with the change in leadership to notice. " _Wilbur."_ He snaps. The doctor turns, unwavering smile still plastered to his face.

"Yes?"

"What does this mean? What the hell do we do?" His voice barely carries over the sounds of the new team moving into the lab. But Wilbur has to hear, they're standing _right next to each other._

"Oh," Wilbur chuckles softly. "You're still on the team, you'll just be working under him. After all, you still have security clearance. It's not like we can...remove the information you know." Zac does not miss the threat, does _not_ miss that there are significantly more guards in the lab than the day before. To ensure there will be a smooth transition of power. 

He supposes he should be relieved, he's not in charge of the project anymore, someone more qualified is. He's not on the spot anymore to understand. 

And yet...

It's not that he particularly enjoys this project, it terrifies and consumes him. But there is also a part of him, a part forgotten in the chaos that ensued, the part of him that craves understanding. That needs to know like a man needs to breathe air. The pushed away, insatiable _hunger_ for knowledge that had dragged him into the study of psychology in the first place. He hates that it's awake. It's a very dangerous way to think these days. 

-

"Have you ever heard of the Sapir–Whorf hypothesis?" Dr. Noveschosch asks. He stands with his back to the Incognitum. For all of Wilbur's talk of reassignments and pacing, not much has changed, and Dr. Noveschosch doesn't seem particularly interested in communicating with the creature. Zac tries to calm his derision. It's only been a week.

"Linguistic Relativity, I'm familiar." Alex speaks up, pushing his beanie down. It's a nervous habit, Zac supposes. Alex isn't fond of the new assignments. He takes notes of Zac's confusion, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. "The theory that the language you speak affects how you think."

"What does that have to do with-with-" Zac motions around the lab in frustration. "With _this,"_ he's sure the doctor has a point, but his fuse is growing shorter by the day. 

"You've been teaching it English, right?" 

"Yes?"

"I need more conviction, have you been teaching it or not?"

" _Yes_." Zac hisses. 

"So we know nothing about its brain, or how it functions; what effects learning a new language might have on it. Only that it feasibly _can_ learn."

"Our goal was to communicate," Zac spits. "We're doing it."

"You're teaching it like a human," Dr. Noveschosch responds, equally hostile. "That's why we're going to be doing things _much_ differently from now on."

"Why are you telling us this?" Zac demands. 

"I thought it was proper to offer you an _explanation,_ as to what we're going to be doing, _despite_ how badly you've fucked up." Dr. Noveschosch fixes Zac with a glare, before turning on his heel and leaving. 

"You know, I think he's right." Alex finally speaks up, hand still anxiously buried in his hair. Zac turns, frowning deeply. "Come on, try to see where he's coming from. We have to be careful with this thing, because if it can't understand its own species...it might not be able to negotiate for us."

-

The Incognitum likes mimicking Dr. Noveschosch. It _really_ likes mimicking Dr. Noveschosch. It hangs onto the man's appearance more often than not, and Zac's become more accustomed to walking into the lab to see two of Dr. Noveschosch; one with a clipboard, and the other peering out from behind a glass wall. 

And it irritates Zac to no end. It _shouldn't_. He knows it's a good thing that the creature is no longer interested in him, no longer focused on him, and he tries to dredge up the fear from those first few days. Maybe if the creature were to escape; it wouldn't immediately go to end his sad, sad life. But he just can't, it just continues to bother him. He chalks it up to feeling left out of the project, which he _is_ these days. Dr. Noveschosch has him assigned to the most useless and mundane of tasks, fetching coffee, ferrying notes that he's not permitted to read; it's such a clear abuse of power and the doctor seems to find it amusing. He's basically not involved anymore; has no idea what they're doing. 

Which in turn means he basically spends no time with the Incognitum. 

That's another thing that really shouldn't bother him, but it does.

It really does, to the point where it interrupts his sleep beyond the usual difficulty caused by George's snores. 

The weather's properly cold now when he sneaks out. And he thought they would have made the lab more secure since his last visit, but evidently everyone was already stretched too thin that a single guy sitting by a glass wall wasn't of the highest concern.

It's waiting for him, wide awake, already melding itself into a human form. In all honesty, he's not even sure it sleeps. 

It's blinking. Incognitum's don't blink. 

"Hi, Zac." It says, in Dr. Noveschosch's voice. But it's different. A different inflection, different tone. It's so clearly _not_ Dr. Noveschosch. Zac doesn't respond. He doesn't have notes with him. He's sleep deprived and confused, and frustrated. "It's night," the Incognitum supplies helpfully. 

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." He falls into silence, leaving the creature watching him closely.

"He doesn't teach words." 

"What?" Zac's head snaps up, trying to refocus on the present. 

"The new Zac. He doesn't teach words." _Oh_.

"Yeah, I know. M'sorry about that." 

"Why?" 

"Uh, why? Because..." he trails off looking at the ground, he's not sure why. At any rate, in his not-quite-professional opinion, it's a stupid reason. He shudders through a breath. "He wants to teach other things."

"I don't _understand,_ " the Incognitum mumbles, curling in on itself. And Zac is reminded of the first time he did this, snuck down here. How it had been scared of _him._ And how it had been confusing because even now, even with the glass wall, the Incognitum is a terrible threat. Even so, he feels the irrational urge to comfort it. _Just because it looks human, of course._ Of course.

"Because he's a fuckin' idiot," Zac says roughly. The Incognitum's eyes widen, mouth opening and closing silently. And then-

And then it giggles. It's not a full laugh, it's heavy, and confused. But it's a laugh, and he's _never heard him laugh before._ And Zac laughs too, running a hand through his hair. 

"Shouldn't've said that." He huffs, pacing. The incognitum's head swivels, watching him closely. 

"Zac. Can you teach?" 

"Huh?" 

"I still want to learn words. Can you teach words." He stares. Stares, and knows this is stupid. This is idiotic, and it's his ego talking, and it's incredibly dangerous from all sides.

"Yeah. I can."

-

He visits the Incognitum a lot.

He does sleep, and apparently needs a lot of it. Zac's beginning to get the feeling they've been dealing with an extremely sleep deprived and disoriented Incognitum.

"Why don't you sleep?" Zac asks. He sighs, glancing up warily, chewing on his bottom lip. 

"Dangerous." He finally says, drawing his knees to his chest. Zac almost barks out a laugh at that, the pure absurdity of one of _them_ being frightened. 

"Well, no one's gonna hurt you," Zac says. _They couldn't if they tried_. He stays quiet, tugging at a strand of hair. Zac would call that a tell, if he were treating a person. A sign that they're lying. Or at least withholding truth. But he has to remind himself; this is not a person. 

"Ok." 

He likes music, he likes to try to sing. Emphasis _on_ try. Zac sits on the other side of the glass, amused, as he warbles out a horrible rendition of whatever new pop song had come out before everything went to shit.

It's kind of cute.

-

He and Alex are drinking. Which, in all honesty is _not_ a new occurrence. It's just something to do. The soldiers do it, so do the scientists. It's not even good stuff. Sour, and old, good for burning your throat and tongue and helping you forget. Just a little. Not enough.

"You need to stop....fuckin. Sneaking out to see that thing," Alex mumbles. Zac feels a jolt of fear, but it's dulled by the alcohol, and the everpresent cloud in his head. 

"H'w d'you know?" 

"Everyone does, you're not really...sneaky. M'think you're gettin' attached to it."

"S'my job to get attached to my patients."

"Zac. It's not a patient."

-

Something is different when he comes to the lab that day. For one, there's no guards by the door, the lack of the immediate threat only puts him more on edge. In the lab proper, the humming of the generator is nearly drowned out by the hum of conversation. The team has left their desks, crowding around the glass wall. No one even looks up when Zac enters. 

And then he hears the screams.

They aren't human, that's for sure. They're guttural, animal, frightened. Raw, ripped out of the throat. Interspersed with the screams are sharp, zapping noises. Everything connects too quickly, the lack of guards, the crowd around the pen-

Zac sprints forward, heedless of who he's pushing out of the way, pressing himself to the glass. The Incognitum is curled against the wall of the cell, as far back as he can go, pressed against the corner. Zac isn't sure where the electricity is coming from, but it forms a fine net around the Incognitum's prone body as he twitches and whimpers in pain. Red, raised marks have formed where the electricity makes contact with his skin. Zac can't see the source, can't tell _why_ anyone would _do_ this, his heart slams against his ribs, and he can't _stop_ it.

Zac whips around, horrified. "Stop! Stop! _YOU'RE HURTING HIM!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://twitter.com/esteemedvegetal/status/1371947681535393795?s=21  
> Ayo fanart for my own Fic


	8. 3.5

George has never been the most motivated person. And the fact that the world ended would really put a damper on anyone's spirits. 

He's not the most motivated.

But he's not stupid.

Zac is up to something, and it has to do with all the new civilians swarming the base. 

It has to do with the new guard with dark glasses. The blonde one who doesn't talk no matter how George prompts him. 

Won't even give him a name.

His skin prickles with fear.


End file.
